Life Serial ficlet.
Jul. 24th, 2006 12:24 am![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
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lateseasonloveOh, a fill-in-the-blank that I can actually use.
Title: The Dutch Courage
Summary: The morning after Life Serial.
A/N: It's been a while since I've seen this episode, so I probably screwed up on some of the minor details--like if Giles was still visiting, or whether or not Tara and Willow still lived at Casa de Summers. I can't remember! But, uh, anyway--this hasn't been beta'd, which is oh-so-clear to anyone who glances through it. Oh well.
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Buffy's sitting at the kitchen island, an obscenely-sized mug of cold and currently forgotten coffee to her left as she mulls over a pile of bills. A huge stack, one that, she swears, grows twice its size every time she looks at it.
The amount of money due that Buffy had managed to wrack up during her unfortunate death stint over the summer is bordering on absurd. There are utilities and mortgage, old hospital bills that not only project her further into debt, but serve as a painful reminder of her mom. Dawn needs money for school, for a new wardrobe, for the weekends when she wants to hang out with her friends and go to the mall and pretend for a few hours that her life isn't as tragically abnormal as it really is. And, not to mention, having to set aside money for those outlandish luxuries--food, health insurance, and clothing.
The kitchen door rattles open, and in a burst of slightly-on-fire blanket and loud, British curses, Spike comes charging through.
Buffy stares. And blinks.
The door slams shut behind him, and he whirls around, dropping the flaming blanket to the floor where he then proceeds to stomp out the mini blaze.
There's some more blinking on Buffy's part.
"Bloody hell," Spike mutters to himself, running an awkward hand through his hair. Today's opening act, the flambéed vampire one, isn't doing much in maintaining his Bad Boy persona, and he has to be as aware of that as Buffy is. More, probably.
"Spike." The word, stretched out into at least three very long, very eloquent syllables, catches his attention, and he looks up at her with a soft, warm, somewhat tentative smile. Buffy hardly notices. "Don't take this the wrong way," she barrels on, "But... what the hell are you doing? Here? In my house? Now?" There are pointed emphasis on the in my house and now parts, it being, you know, broad daylight and all. And her house.
His smile fades fast. "And a good morning to you, too," he drawls dryly, shrugging his shoulders so that his duster fits more comfortably. And probably to earn back a few cool points.
"Again," she repeats. "What are you doing? Here. Now--"
"Yeah, yeah," Spike waves her off. He looks away, this almost imperceptible tick in his jaw, before he meets her eyes again. Only he looks way more indifferent, like he's not at all bothered by her welcoming hostility. "I was in the neighborhood. I thought I'd swing by. There some kinda crime in that?"
"Says the vampire to the Slayer. What do you think? " she shoots back sarcastically, unamused. It's taking a lot not to roll her eyes, but that would require effort that she just doesn't feel like wasting on him. "And, besides," she adds, tossing an emphatic head-jerk in gesture to the kitchen window. "It's, like, mid-morning. Shouldn't you be somewhere... I wanna say... not here?"
"As I said," he tells her, beginning to walk his way over to where she's settled at. Only it's more of a predatorial type stalking than anything resembling normal or casual. "I was in the neighborhood. And I figured after last night's pub-crawl with the late night beasties... you might need some tending to."
Buffy's eyes nearly bug out of her head with his words--with one word, in particular. "What?" she all but chokes out, her face hot and flaming. There's this great lack of composure that suddenly overtakes her, combined with an equally pathetic loss of coherent thought and speech. "No!" she sputters in indignation. "No tending! Absolutely, positively--"
"Relax, Slayer," he cuts in, looking way too mellow and smiling a smile that's both extra creepy, and way too charming. It's like a chesire grin on a mass-murdering, people-eating cat. "I'm talking hang-over, is all. You know, on account of our tossing down a few good pints?"
"Oh." If possible, her face reddens even more. It's like a big, blinking I'm a skanky, dirty-minded ho! neon sign flashing overhead, but she ignores his smug grin and ignores that shot of nerves and adrenaline currently doing the fox trot inside of her, instead settling for tacking on prim with a side-dish of proper. "Of course," she adds, matter-of-factly.
"Of course," he agrees.
She restacks the pile of bills at her side, pointedly not making eye contact. It's a convenient, if not short-lived, distraction. "I think we're all pleased to note that I am hang-over free."
He actually looks kinda... proud, smiling crookedly. "And here I had you pegged the lightweight."
"Guess that'll teach you not to peg me anymore, huh?" She realizes the second she's said it how, not only horribly lame it is, but how very many ways it could be translated from ignorant-Buffy speak to pervy-Spike speak. And judging by the instant grin that spreads across Spike's face, the face that's suddenly way too close for comfort and bordering on an invasion of her personal bubble, he's not thinking dart boards and peg games or anything equally innocent.
"I don't know," he starts to say, only his voice is heavier than before. Like it's been soaked in wine. His eyes flick from hers, to the ground, and back up again, this time accompanied with a more wicked version of his smirk. "I think I might like... pegging you."
She yet again resists the urge to roll her eyes. Rolling her eyes would be acknowledging his innuendo, which would mean acknowledging the fact that he has feelings for her, and that's a place she doesn't want to go, let alone bring bubbling to the surface. "Funny," she quips, more an automatic response than anything. "'Cause here I am the one with the stake and, oh! Moral obligation to kill your kind. Looks like I get to do all the pegging."
Spike slides in close. "Fair's fair," he says, still in that smooth, silky voice, and, even though he's staring at her with what he probably considers an innocent expression, she can still feel the innuendo creeping somewhere beyond those words.
His breath is warm on her face, or room temperature at the very least, and she can feel the heaviness and weight of his body and the coolness of his leather coat against her arm. She can't break away from his eyes, not with the way he's looking at her. Not with the way he seems suddenly confused at this swift switch in moods, even though he was the one who'd jumpstarted it. At the way he's searching her eyes, trying to find something. Anything. Permission, or a refusal, an explanation--
"Please," a very Giles-sounding voice suddenly speaks from behind them, making both Buffy and Spike snap away from each other like two polar ends of a magnetic force. Buffy nearly falls out of her chair, graceful as ever, whereas Spike manages to look calm and collected and just plain flat-out annoyed at the unexpected intrusion. "Spike," Giles continues, stepping like the stereotypical father figure into the room; large and sort of visually demanding. His gaze slowly travels from Buffy to Spike and back again, picking up all sorts of accusation in the space between. "Do enlighten me: is there any reason in particular you're in my Slayer's kitchen?"
"What can I say, Rupes," is Spike's reply, a tight, irritated smile on his face. "I heard you flew in from the Mother Country and had to come find out for myself if the rumors were true. And what do you know? Here you are, in the bloody flesh. Guess that means I can go to sleep satisfied."
"Yes, well, " Giles says, or more sort of drones, clearly not at all buying this as a valid excuse. "Buffy?" he tacks on slyly, his eyes still locked on Spike. "A word, please?"
Buffy springs to her feet, the wooden stool beneath her screeching along the linoleum. "Spike was--"
"On his merry way out," Spike fills in, a verbal white flag. He's not entirely stupid enough to prolong the visit. "I'll just--"
"Be getting that info later," is Buffy's quick, if not extremely fake, add-on. There's a short silence that fills the room. "You know," she expands, "That demon-y thing you stopped by about?"
Spike, the world's most clueless vampire, just stares. A lot. "Right," he finally decides. "That... demon-y thing."
"That you stopped by about."
"Of course. I'll just get it--"
"Later?"
"Exactly what I was aiming for," Spike easily agrees. He glances towards Giles, nodding once in good-bye, before bending over to retrieve his blanket. The thing is singed and charred and looking like it'll offer little to no protection from the mid-morning sun, but Spike doesn't seem any bothered by it. With one last holding look at Buffy, one that silently demands a continuation of their interrupted conversation at a later time, he's out the door, a temporary shadow behind the kitchen door before she sees him darting off towards the nearest safe spot of shade.
"Buffy," Giles says after a moment, his voice this quiet, soft, chastising level of disapproval. "I'm not completely naive, you know."
She starts concentrating on her bills again. They need to be restacked. And maybe alphabetized. "What? There was a thing."
"So I gathered. This... thing..." he questions. "It wouldn't, by chance, have anything to do with last night, would it?"
He doesn't have to elaborate for her to catch the accusation. Last night was headache-y Buffy, as well as Prays-to-the-Porcelain-God Buffy, the one who came home with eau du cheap liquor in every crease and ruffle of her clothing.
Whether Giles gets the answer he's looking for with her lack of response, or he only grows more confused by it, he continues on. "Buffy," he starts again, only this time with a little more paternal compassion. This sort of deprecating knowledge in his tone, like every mistake made in life is a mistake expected, a mistake willing to be overlooked. "How... often... does Spike, erm... come over?"
"Giles," Buffy loudly sighs, definitely not in the mood to have this conversation, or anything close to resembling this conversation, right now. Not with all the underlying implications. "Can we save the 'concerned Watcher' lecture for another scheduled place and time? Please?"
"I only ask because I know how... how your recent view of him has changed--"
"Nothing's changed. Spike is a vampire. Spike is evil. See? I still have that memo taped to the front of the fridge. I haven't forgotten."
"So he simply stopped by--"
"I don't know," she tiredly cuts him off. "Okay? Does it matter?"
There's a noise from upstairs--Dawn slamming the bathroom door, or her bedroom door, or the nearest door that's within reach--that briefly diverts both of their attention upwards. Aware that their conversation is being heard possibly by others, Giles steps more into the kitchen and lowers his voice. "You know of his fixation--"
"There is no fixation. None."
Giles looks some combined form of baffled and appalled, and he takes a long moment to answer. "You honestly believe that?"
Buffy flashbacks to just the few minutes before. Spike's eyes locked on hers, his lips parting and his face falling closer. That flared feeling in her gut that eclipsed all reason, that sent her heart hammering in her ears and in her throat and her chest. The way she felt like she was falling, tumbling, dropping towards some carefree, irresponsible place where nothing was wrong and everything was all right.
She stuffs the thick collection of bills into a safe drawer, the ones that need to paid first on top, and meets her Watcher's eyes. "I do."
And she does. Partially.
Title: The Dutch Courage
Summary: The morning after Life Serial.
A/N: It's been a while since I've seen this episode, so I probably screwed up on some of the minor details--like if Giles was still visiting, or whether or not Tara and Willow still lived at Casa de Summers. I can't remember! But, uh, anyway--this hasn't been beta'd, which is oh-so-clear to anyone who glances through it. Oh well.
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Buffy's sitting at the kitchen island, an obscenely-sized mug of cold and currently forgotten coffee to her left as she mulls over a pile of bills. A huge stack, one that, she swears, grows twice its size every time she looks at it.
The amount of money due that Buffy had managed to wrack up during her unfortunate death stint over the summer is bordering on absurd. There are utilities and mortgage, old hospital bills that not only project her further into debt, but serve as a painful reminder of her mom. Dawn needs money for school, for a new wardrobe, for the weekends when she wants to hang out with her friends and go to the mall and pretend for a few hours that her life isn't as tragically abnormal as it really is. And, not to mention, having to set aside money for those outlandish luxuries--food, health insurance, and clothing.
The kitchen door rattles open, and in a burst of slightly-on-fire blanket and loud, British curses, Spike comes charging through.
Buffy stares. And blinks.
The door slams shut behind him, and he whirls around, dropping the flaming blanket to the floor where he then proceeds to stomp out the mini blaze.
There's some more blinking on Buffy's part.
"Bloody hell," Spike mutters to himself, running an awkward hand through his hair. Today's opening act, the flambéed vampire one, isn't doing much in maintaining his Bad Boy persona, and he has to be as aware of that as Buffy is. More, probably.
"Spike." The word, stretched out into at least three very long, very eloquent syllables, catches his attention, and he looks up at her with a soft, warm, somewhat tentative smile. Buffy hardly notices. "Don't take this the wrong way," she barrels on, "But... what the hell are you doing? Here? In my house? Now?" There are pointed emphasis on the in my house and now parts, it being, you know, broad daylight and all. And her house.
His smile fades fast. "And a good morning to you, too," he drawls dryly, shrugging his shoulders so that his duster fits more comfortably. And probably to earn back a few cool points.
"Again," she repeats. "What are you doing? Here. Now--"
"Yeah, yeah," Spike waves her off. He looks away, this almost imperceptible tick in his jaw, before he meets her eyes again. Only he looks way more indifferent, like he's not at all bothered by her welcoming hostility. "I was in the neighborhood. I thought I'd swing by. There some kinda crime in that?"
"Says the vampire to the Slayer. What do you think? " she shoots back sarcastically, unamused. It's taking a lot not to roll her eyes, but that would require effort that she just doesn't feel like wasting on him. "And, besides," she adds, tossing an emphatic head-jerk in gesture to the kitchen window. "It's, like, mid-morning. Shouldn't you be somewhere... I wanna say... not here?"
"As I said," he tells her, beginning to walk his way over to where she's settled at. Only it's more of a predatorial type stalking than anything resembling normal or casual. "I was in the neighborhood. And I figured after last night's pub-crawl with the late night beasties... you might need some tending to."
Buffy's eyes nearly bug out of her head with his words--with one word, in particular. "What?" she all but chokes out, her face hot and flaming. There's this great lack of composure that suddenly overtakes her, combined with an equally pathetic loss of coherent thought and speech. "No!" she sputters in indignation. "No tending! Absolutely, positively--"
"Relax, Slayer," he cuts in, looking way too mellow and smiling a smile that's both extra creepy, and way too charming. It's like a chesire grin on a mass-murdering, people-eating cat. "I'm talking hang-over, is all. You know, on account of our tossing down a few good pints?"
"Oh." If possible, her face reddens even more. It's like a big, blinking I'm a skanky, dirty-minded ho! neon sign flashing overhead, but she ignores his smug grin and ignores that shot of nerves and adrenaline currently doing the fox trot inside of her, instead settling for tacking on prim with a side-dish of proper. "Of course," she adds, matter-of-factly.
"Of course," he agrees.
She restacks the pile of bills at her side, pointedly not making eye contact. It's a convenient, if not short-lived, distraction. "I think we're all pleased to note that I am hang-over free."
He actually looks kinda... proud, smiling crookedly. "And here I had you pegged the lightweight."
"Guess that'll teach you not to peg me anymore, huh?" She realizes the second she's said it how, not only horribly lame it is, but how very many ways it could be translated from ignorant-Buffy speak to pervy-Spike speak. And judging by the instant grin that spreads across Spike's face, the face that's suddenly way too close for comfort and bordering on an invasion of her personal bubble, he's not thinking dart boards and peg games or anything equally innocent.
"I don't know," he starts to say, only his voice is heavier than before. Like it's been soaked in wine. His eyes flick from hers, to the ground, and back up again, this time accompanied with a more wicked version of his smirk. "I think I might like... pegging you."
She yet again resists the urge to roll her eyes. Rolling her eyes would be acknowledging his innuendo, which would mean acknowledging the fact that he has feelings for her, and that's a place she doesn't want to go, let alone bring bubbling to the surface. "Funny," she quips, more an automatic response than anything. "'Cause here I am the one with the stake and, oh! Moral obligation to kill your kind. Looks like I get to do all the pegging."
Spike slides in close. "Fair's fair," he says, still in that smooth, silky voice, and, even though he's staring at her with what he probably considers an innocent expression, she can still feel the innuendo creeping somewhere beyond those words.
His breath is warm on her face, or room temperature at the very least, and she can feel the heaviness and weight of his body and the coolness of his leather coat against her arm. She can't break away from his eyes, not with the way he's looking at her. Not with the way he seems suddenly confused at this swift switch in moods, even though he was the one who'd jumpstarted it. At the way he's searching her eyes, trying to find something. Anything. Permission, or a refusal, an explanation--
"Please," a very Giles-sounding voice suddenly speaks from behind them, making both Buffy and Spike snap away from each other like two polar ends of a magnetic force. Buffy nearly falls out of her chair, graceful as ever, whereas Spike manages to look calm and collected and just plain flat-out annoyed at the unexpected intrusion. "Spike," Giles continues, stepping like the stereotypical father figure into the room; large and sort of visually demanding. His gaze slowly travels from Buffy to Spike and back again, picking up all sorts of accusation in the space between. "Do enlighten me: is there any reason in particular you're in my Slayer's kitchen?"
"What can I say, Rupes," is Spike's reply, a tight, irritated smile on his face. "I heard you flew in from the Mother Country and had to come find out for myself if the rumors were true. And what do you know? Here you are, in the bloody flesh. Guess that means I can go to sleep satisfied."
"Yes, well, " Giles says, or more sort of drones, clearly not at all buying this as a valid excuse. "Buffy?" he tacks on slyly, his eyes still locked on Spike. "A word, please?"
Buffy springs to her feet, the wooden stool beneath her screeching along the linoleum. "Spike was--"
"On his merry way out," Spike fills in, a verbal white flag. He's not entirely stupid enough to prolong the visit. "I'll just--"
"Be getting that info later," is Buffy's quick, if not extremely fake, add-on. There's a short silence that fills the room. "You know," she expands, "That demon-y thing you stopped by about?"
Spike, the world's most clueless vampire, just stares. A lot. "Right," he finally decides. "That... demon-y thing."
"That you stopped by about."
"Of course. I'll just get it--"
"Later?"
"Exactly what I was aiming for," Spike easily agrees. He glances towards Giles, nodding once in good-bye, before bending over to retrieve his blanket. The thing is singed and charred and looking like it'll offer little to no protection from the mid-morning sun, but Spike doesn't seem any bothered by it. With one last holding look at Buffy, one that silently demands a continuation of their interrupted conversation at a later time, he's out the door, a temporary shadow behind the kitchen door before she sees him darting off towards the nearest safe spot of shade.
"Buffy," Giles says after a moment, his voice this quiet, soft, chastising level of disapproval. "I'm not completely naive, you know."
She starts concentrating on her bills again. They need to be restacked. And maybe alphabetized. "What? There was a thing."
"So I gathered. This... thing..." he questions. "It wouldn't, by chance, have anything to do with last night, would it?"
He doesn't have to elaborate for her to catch the accusation. Last night was headache-y Buffy, as well as Prays-to-the-Porcelain-God Buffy, the one who came home with eau du cheap liquor in every crease and ruffle of her clothing.
Whether Giles gets the answer he's looking for with her lack of response, or he only grows more confused by it, he continues on. "Buffy," he starts again, only this time with a little more paternal compassion. This sort of deprecating knowledge in his tone, like every mistake made in life is a mistake expected, a mistake willing to be overlooked. "How... often... does Spike, erm... come over?"
"Giles," Buffy loudly sighs, definitely not in the mood to have this conversation, or anything close to resembling this conversation, right now. Not with all the underlying implications. "Can we save the 'concerned Watcher' lecture for another scheduled place and time? Please?"
"I only ask because I know how... how your recent view of him has changed--"
"Nothing's changed. Spike is a vampire. Spike is evil. See? I still have that memo taped to the front of the fridge. I haven't forgotten."
"So he simply stopped by--"
"I don't know," she tiredly cuts him off. "Okay? Does it matter?"
There's a noise from upstairs--Dawn slamming the bathroom door, or her bedroom door, or the nearest door that's within reach--that briefly diverts both of their attention upwards. Aware that their conversation is being heard possibly by others, Giles steps more into the kitchen and lowers his voice. "You know of his fixation--"
"There is no fixation. None."
Giles looks some combined form of baffled and appalled, and he takes a long moment to answer. "You honestly believe that?"
Buffy flashbacks to just the few minutes before. Spike's eyes locked on hers, his lips parting and his face falling closer. That flared feeling in her gut that eclipsed all reason, that sent her heart hammering in her ears and in her throat and her chest. The way she felt like she was falling, tumbling, dropping towards some carefree, irresponsible place where nothing was wrong and everything was all right.
She stuffs the thick collection of bills into a safe drawer, the ones that need to paid first on top, and meets her Watcher's eyes. "I do."
And she does. Partially.
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no subject
Date: 2006-07-24 11:26 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-07-25 04:54 am (UTC)I have no Life Serial icons, so this one *points* will have to do. ;)
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Date: 2006-07-24 12:45 pm (UTC)I sure miss the show....Thank goodness for fanfiction!
no subject
Date: 2006-07-24 02:18 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-07-24 04:21 pm (UTC)I love this-- it's exactly Giles.
no subject
Date: 2006-07-25 10:02 am (UTC)Teehee.. you had me laughing out loud there :D
I really, really enjoyed this. I wish they could takes all of these FitB-advanced and reshoot some of the show :D I'd definitely vote for this one.
Thanks for distracting me from the dreary depths of economic tests :D
no subject
Date: 2006-07-27 01:52 am (UTC)I love this. I'm always so impressed with the way you write snarky Spuffy with that hint of real need creeping in underneath. You are made of awesome. This fic felt very real to me, and all of your character voices seemed so perfect. Wonderful job, and thank you so much for sharing. :D
no subject
Date: 2006-07-27 03:22 am (UTC)His eyes flick from hers, to the ground, and back up again, this time accompanied with a more wicked version of his smirk. "I think I might like... pegging you."
Heheheheheheheheheh. Ah, fantastic! I love the way you write these two :)
Thanks very much for sharing and good luck! :)